After Action Report
by FoxGlade
Summary: Tony wants to know why he had to learn about this shit from Twitter, Steve wants to know where Clint's been during all of this, and actually, Tony would like to know that too. Nobody wants to know why Natasha's saved as "Baby Momma" in Clint's phone. / post-Winter Soldier, spoilers abound. [Steve/Bucky pre-slash]
1. after action report

Two days after the shitshow that was SHIELD's utter destruction, Steve shows up at Stark Tower in an offensively tight hoodie, politely asking if he could see Tony Stark please, no, don't go to any trouble, ma'am, I don't mind waiting.

"I keep wondering, Steve, my patriotic friend, why I found out about all of this on _twitter_," Tony says, attempting to sling on arm over Steve's shoulder as they walk to the elevator. Tony is about half a foot shorter than Steve, so it ends up being more of an awkward pat on one shoulder. "JARVIS has been in the SHIELD system since New York, I am a literal genius hacker, and I didn't even know about HYDRA infiltrating until _twitter _told me?"

"What's twitter?" Steve asks, face perfectly innocent. Tony makes a distressed noise and punches the button for the top floor.

"Don't worry your precious antique head over it, Cap, although while we're speaking of technology and your various problems with it, you didn't think to call? Maybe just once? Real quick, thirty seconds tops, little bit of a warning before Helicarriers came crashing out of the atmosphere?"

"I'm still having trouble with my phone," Steve lies. Screw Natasha, he's great at this.

"I will make you a new phone. I will make you a phone tailored to your specific and very sad needs," Tony says. Steve hums along to the music playing in the elevator. It's soft and jazzy – he tunes out Tony to appreciate it. "Because it is, you know, slightly important when you're trying to save the world that you communicate with other people who, coincidentally, can help you save the world."

"I had people," Steve replies. "Good people. Real fun crowd, not too flashy."

"Oh, I see how it is. No love for the guy who literally built you your own floor in his own tower, out of the goodness of his heart, made with blood, sweat, and-"

"Nope," Steve says cheerfully, popping the 'p' in time with the _ding _the elevator makes as the doors open. He strolls into an open space kitchen/living/dining room, leaving Tony behind, gaping unattractively.

"Clear the deck, the Star Spangled Man with a Plan is back, and he finally learned how to talk smack like a real person!" Tony calls out, scurrying after him. Steve surveys the space, notes the TV turned to a 24 hour news channel, currently (and predictably) broadcasting footage from DC. The scrolling banner more or less amounts to a laundry list of the most pertinent facts revealed by the massive info bomb dropped upon the unsuspecting internet.

A hand pokes up from the couch and waves. When Steve gets close enough, he sees familiar spiked hair and a less familiar, but completely unsurprising, baggy, garishly purple hoodie.

"'Sup, Cap," Clint says, scrolling through a webpage on his phone and ignoring the news. "You got any idea what Nat's up to? She hasn't answered her phone in like, a million years. I'd be worried if she hadn't been splashed all over every news outlet in the world." True to his word, the channel immediately cut away to the footage of Natasha leaving the hearing, small smile firmly in place.

"I'm not sure, but I think it may have been exploded," Steve replies. He moves to sit at one of the couch, and Clint obligingly lifts his feet so he can perch with his hands clasped on his knees. "I was a bit busy at the time."

He hears a blender start up in the kitchen area and hopes Stark doesn't set anything on fire. Clint looks at him, properly for the first time since he arrived. "Are you okay?" he asks. The switch from his previous brevity to solemn sobriety is a bit jarring, and Steve's reminded suddenly that he and Natasha worked together for years, at SHIELD. SHIELD, which no longer even exists.

It's been a long week, and it catches up to him all at once. "Yeah," he says, slouching in his seat. "I… I have a plan. I know what to do. It'll be fine," he concludes. "Probably."

"If you say so," Clint replies doubtfully. He dips a hand into a frankly ridiculously sized bag of crisps and munches on them loudly, then offers him the bag. Steve politely declines. "It's just, Nat texted me about the whole Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes thing, and I mean, it's not like Stark's the type to lend a sympathetic ear, and believe me, Banner is _not _as good at it as you'd think. So. I volunteer as a tribute?" he finishes weakly.

Steve sits in silence for a while, studying his hands. Eventually, he looks up at Clint's earnest expression. "She texted you? About a highly delicate, classified op? Seriously?"

Clint throws up his hands and groans. "Try to be a nice guy," he mutters, then rummages around in the pocket of his hoodie before pulling out a phone identical to Natasha's. He presses a few buttons and then shows Steve the screen.

**"WS actually CA's best guy bucky? small world huh"** it reads. The number is saved as "Baby Momma". Steve, after a few moments contemplation, decides that discretion is the better part of valour, and doesn't ask. Instead, he asks JARVIS to up the volume of the TV a little more, and settles in to see how the rest of the world is dealing with his mess.

* * *

"Where were you during all of this?" Steve asks Clint the next morning over the French toast Clint whipped up. It's pretty amazing. "You're pretty high up the SHIELD ladder, shouldn't you have been in the thick of it with us?"

It's not like he thinks Clint is some sort of HYDRA agent, but he hasn't exactly made himself visible lately. Come to think of it, he's pretty sure this is the first time he's seen Clint since he'd driven off with Natasha after sending off Loki and Thor.

"Called in a sick day a couple of hours before Fury got attacked," Clint says with a shrug, throwing another piece of soaked bread in the pan. It sizzles satisfyingly. "Figured I'd best lie low when we all got the standard condolence email. Then you're all over the news getting your ass kicked by some high-tech ghost assassin, Helicarriers are dropping like flies; thought to myself, maybe Stark'll know what to do. I get here and he's going on about hashtags or whatever. You know he told me, I quote, 'Make like your name and tweet, Barton, why do I have to drag all these technophobes into the 21st century, jeez'."

"And I stand by that quote," Tony interrupts, shambling in. He grabs the pot of coffee Clint had brewed and pours all of what's left of it into a mug that's the size of Steve's bicep. "Whatever that quote was. I'm not really awake right now, systems processing on limited capacity. What are we talking about?"

"I was just asking where Clint's been, this past week," Steve says, chewing on a slice of bread. It really is amazing – if the rest of Clint's cooking is this good, he'll agree to move in on the spot. Tony points at him with the mug, sloshing a little over the side.

"Good question, Steve Carlsberg. No, I'm sorry, eve you don't deserve to be called that." Steve shoots a confused look at Clint and gets a firm 'don't ask' gesture in return. He momentarily regrets leaving his "Things I'm Confused About" notebook with him and mentally adds "Steve Carlsberg" to the list. "Where have you been these past few months, Birdbrain?" Tony continues, clearly on a roll now. "Specifically, when I was in my time of trial, Mandarin, president being kidnapped, that whole happy happenstance? Where were you, Spangles? And Red too, I guess. Or even the whole damn SHIELD operation! They couldn't have even sent, I dunno, some paper pushers to help out? Why the hell was I left out in the cold?!"

The silence in the kitchen was only broken by the sizzling of French toast on the stove. Clint shook the pan a little, then carefully used a spatula to flip it onto the serving plate. "Well, I dunno about SHIELD, but I was scuba diving in Spain," he says, completely straight-faced. Tony stares at him for a few seconds, then narrows his eyes.

"You're fucking with me, I know you are," he says, but the edge of hysteria is gone from his voice. Clint grins and starts cleaning down the cooking area.

"Hell yes I am, you think when I go to Spain I have time to take a goddamn snorkel? I mean, maybe if I'm dodging bullets on my way to a secret underwater lair, but that hasn't happened in years," he says, waving a hand dismissively. Tony opens his mouth again but Clint heads him off by continuing, "We got bigger problems than you, buddy. What's a threat to the president of good ol' US of A when there's a planned attack on a summit meeting hosing leaders of eight different nations? How do you figure we triage a few bomb threats that Tony Stark is handling when the entirety of the Asian continent as well as Eastern Europe is under imminent threat from a hyper deadly air-born pathogen? We figured you had it covered. That's how SHIELD works, dumbass – we come into FUBAR situations and make them a little less FUBAR. Well," he adds, "that's what we used to do, anyway. SHIELD's out of business now. Damn."

There's a respectful silence in which they individually contemplate the effect SHIELD has had on each of their lives, and how their lives will now be different, in ways infinitesimal and glaringly enormous, because of its absence

"Wouldn't have said no to a little help from my so-called teammates," Tony mumbles petulantly.

"Me and Nat were on the other side of the world, literally, and Steve was out road-tripping from Bumfuck, Texas, to Asscrack of Nowhere, Alaska," Clint points out sensibly. "Banner was god knows where, probably saving orphan babies in the Congo or some noble shit like that."

"I get the point, Angry Bird," Tony says. He throws back the last of his coffee like it's a shot, then stands. "Try not to destroy my house while I go do genius things with my loyal and loveable genius friend."

After Tony struts out, Steve helps Clint clean up, thinking about how the world is going to get along without its silent protector now, and how the public will react in the long term to the knowledge of what had been going on behind the scenes for so long, and where on Earth he would start looking for Bucky, and how he'll deal with him when he actually finds him. Then, he thinks about why Natasha could possibly be named as "Baby Momma" in Clint's phone, and how Tony and Bruce are probably doing something that could kill them all instantly _right now_, and how he should probably get working on his "Things I'm Confused About" notebook if he has any hope of keeping up a conversation with Clint and/or Tony. But mostly, he thinks about how he has time now, and he's damn well going to use it right.

"Think you could teach me how to cook?" he says out loud. Clint looks up from the soapy dishes in the sink (and somewhere, Tony feels a little pain in his arc reactor that someone is ignoring the impressive and undoubtedly expensive washing machine two feet to his left, Steve is sure) and gives him a once over. Steve does his best to appear earnest. "I only know a couple of basic dinners, nothing fancy," he says. "You seem like you know your way around a stove."

Clint continues to give him a discerning (and unnerving) look, only for his expression to change into something near pleased. "Damn straight I do," he says proudly. "By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be cooking confi and blue with the best of them." He dries his hands on a dish towel and gets a shrewd look in his eye. "Any reason you're asking?"

"I like to have busy hands," Steve says honestly. Maybe Natasha was right about him being a terrible liar; in any case, he's much better at telling the truth. So he takes a deep breath and continues, "And I might like to take you up on that offer to talk, sometime."

The kitchen is light and open, and lingering with the smell of meals long since eaten. It seems like as good a place as any to spill his guts. "Any time you want, Cap," Clint says, clapping him on the shoulder and heading back to the living room. "In the meantime, you wanna watch Fox news's take on the situation? It'll be hilarious, trust me."

And the funny thing is, Steve does.


	2. measuring life in cooking lessons

**measuring life in cooking lessons**

Steve Rogers has a plan.

"It's not like you can keep renting your apartments, now that your income source is ever so slightly non-existent," Tony points out, fiddling mindlessly with a tablet that looks unspeakably technologically advanced. "So you have no money to rent, and you also have custom made floors in the most secure building in New York. Seems like a no-brainer to me."

"I don't know, maybe I want to check what's on the market first," Steve replies teasingly. He's leaning against a counter and watching Clint cook some sort of stew. Clint's been narrating everything he does, giving him an idea of how something like this is made, before he throws Steve in the deep end. It smells homey and comforting – exactly what Steve needs, after this week. "Doctor Banner, how are you liking it here?"

"Hmm? It's, yeah, it's good here. Really guys, you'll love it," Bruce mumbles. He scribbles something down on his own tablet and holds it next to Tony's, whispering something. Tony makes what Steve is quickly coming to recognise as an Excited Science Noise and writes something on Bruce's tablet before frantically tapping on his own screen.

"They've been like this every time they come out of their science cave," Clint laments, adding a few shakes of something powdery to the stew and stirring. He dips a spoon in, then holds it up to Steve's face. "Taste."

Steve obeys. It's delicious, and he says as much. "Maybe a bit more spice," he adds. "I like spicy food."

"Yeah, so does Bruce, I swear he cooked us this south-Asian curry the other day and-" Clint mimes an explosion in front of his mouth. "There's still some in the freezer, if you wanna try it tomorrow."

"I will," Steve decides. Somehow, this is what breaks through the scientific haze enveloping Tony and Bruce.

"So, you're staying, then?" Tony says. "Because I have a gym in the basement with like, three hundred different machines in it, and I only use maybe three of them? Angry Bird over there uses five, big man that he is."

"You already called me that today," Clint points out. "Unimaginative much?"

"Maybe I like that one," Tony retorts. "If the shoe fits, and all that." Clint just shakes his head and turns the stove off.

What this all comes to is that Steve has a plan, and it mostly involves wheedling JARVIS into running as thorough a search as he possibly can for Bucky without Tony, or Bruce for that matter, being aware of what he's doing. Then he's going to go out, find Bucky, and…

Well, he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

But sitting here around some ultra-designed table that is definitely not designed to withstand being in an Avengers common space, eating a delicious beef stew that warms his bones with the exactly right amount of spiciness, he decides that his plan can wait until tomorrow. Bucky has apparently survived this long without him; he can survive one more night before Steve comes to get him.

Morning comes, and with it comes a flaw in his plan.

The city is busy at 6am, especially around Stark Tower. Steve's been looking forward to jogging around the area since he left DC. The bright lights and frantic traffic that was once bewildering is now soothing, reminding him that life in the city continues on in spite of chaos and destruction. The world of espionage was dealt a massive blow barely days ago, and yet here they all are, fighting traffic and straggling down the sidewalk, no thoughts except as to how late they're going to be for work, whether or not they turned the stove off. It's a balm to his guilt, knowing that life and society as he knows it hasn't screeched to a halt because of what he set in motion.

In this state of peace and goodwill, he goes to set off on his jog, but halts just outside the tower doors. There's a man sitting against the wall a few feet from the door, huddled into a lightweight hoodie and thin-looking gloves, seemingly trying to disappear entirely, from how tight he's curled up. Steve thinks of the soul-heartening stew they'd had last night, of the six separate guest bedrooms on the common floor, and steps over to crouch down in front of the guy.

"Excuse me, sir," he says softly, trying to make his shoulders less intimidatingly broad. "Are you cold? Hungry? Can I help at all?"

He really isn't prepared for the man to lift his face from his knees and stare at him with Bucky's eyes, and Bucky's face, and _oh shit_.

"Steve?" he says plaintively, expression crumpled.

He hadn't even considered that maybe Bucky would come to get him first.

"Bucky," Steve breathed, eyes drinking in the sight of him. "Are you hurt? Are you alright?"

"I didn't know where I had to go," Bucky whispers, eyes moving to a point over Steve's shoulder. "There was no one left. I knew you," he says abruptly, eyes shooting back to Steve's. "I found you. Captain America, leader of the Howling Commandos," he recites. Steve can feel his heart sink as he starts to realise how much damage has been done to his friend. This isn't quick-witted, charming and sly Bucky Barnes – he doesn't know what this is. "They said Howard Stark was your friend, and Tony Stark is an Avenger, I knew this building, I knew-" His voice cuts out. Then, "There was – James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. I didn't recognise…" he trails off, voice thick. He gulps, then continues, almost inaudibly in the early morning sounds of traffic, "Am I Bucky? Steve?"

For a moment, Steve's too overcome to even breathe. So he crouches on a New York street at the base of a superhero's tower, ignoring the curious pedestrians, and tentatively puts a hand on Bucky's knee. "Yeah," he says. He swallows hard, then smiles. It's painful, but it's real. "Yeah, you are, Bucky."

He does know what this is, he thinks as Bucky looks at him with shiny eyes and inches his hand up to cover Steve's. It's not his best guy Bucky Barnes, but it is a start.

After he guides Bucky into his bed and cracks the heating up, he calls Natasha. It rings to voicemail, but the message is a sweet, blissfully carefree, "Hey! Leave me a message," so he doesn't worry. If he stays silent for a few moments after the beep, it's only to savour how she finally sounds someone that might even be herself.

After he hangs up, he mentally reviews his plan. And panics when he realises that he has come to the bridge six blocks before he should have, and is now balanced precariously on the railing, trying to figure out how to get across – on one side, churning water, and on the other, rush hour traffic. Or something. He's a strategic planner, not a poet.

But it's fine. He's always done alright with plans made on the fly, after all.

He knocks on Clint's door, sharp and loud, and half a minute later Clint is standing there is boxers and a baggy Army Rangers shirt. "Morning," Steve says shortly, before Clint can say anything. "You up to teaching me how to make those French toasts? I think I need to talk."

Clint yawns and stretches. Something in his back makes a loud cracking sound and Steve winces. "Yeah, I'm up," he mumbles, then squints. "This is going to be a long cooking lesson, isn't it?"

"I found Bucky sitting outside the tower on the street when I went out for a jog and he remembered me but I'm pretty sure that's all he remembers."

Clint just waves a hand and heads for the kitchen, Steve shuffling in his wake.

Things happen quicker than Steve had ever dared to hope.

Bucky screams his way through nightmares, screams until his voice is hoarse and cracked, but stays deathly still the whole time. Steve sits in the bed next to him and reads recipe upon recipe on the tablet Tony gave him, thanks anyone who may be listening that the walls are soundproof, and tells himself that nightmares means memories, and any memory at all is better than Bucky being a blank slate with an empty stare.

For those first few days, Bucky drifts through the tower like a ghost and sticks to Steve like a shadow. Similes once used to describe his terrifying and brutally efficient career as an assassin now serve only to reinforce how drained and diminished he's become.

"You sure you got this handled, Cap?" Clint murmurs after running into them on Bucky's second day, tense and flighty. "Because lemme tell you, there's a reason I had a month of downtime and mandatory psych evals after Loki…" He taps two fingers to his temple.

"I don't know," Steve replies lowly. "But I think…" he looks over his shoulder at Bucky, who's poised on the edge of an armchair, looking over the bookshelf opposite him. "I think he just needs time to remember. That's what they didn't give him, back there. Time, and kindness."

"You sure he's in the right place, then?" Clint says wryly, but he punches Steve affectionately on the bicep and says, "If that's all he needs, then I guess you're the best one to deal with him. Honestly, Cap? I'm looking forward to meeting the famous Bucky Barnes."

"You will," Steve promises, and carries the glass of water he was fetching back to Bucky.

He gets more and more verbal each day, and with it, more confident. Memories come back to him in fits and starts, and he gets into the habit of announcing them, describing them if he's with Steve, or writing them down on the increasingly often occasions they're not together.

"You always had something against running away," he says suddenly one morning, staring into his scrambled eggs. Steve looks up from where he's frying bacon under Clint's watchful eye.

"Still do," he says with a shrug. Tony and Bruce are already working on experiments in Bruce's lab, or possible are still working on experiments, or (most likely) have long since passed out on their benches.

"No, I remember… that damn cat." And suddenly Bucky's whole manner is easy, conversational, and so so familiar that Steve could cry. "Ugliest son of a gun you've ever seen, but these three older guys were kicking it around this alley, so you know Steve had to be a hero," Bucky says to Clint. Clint is grinning and nodding, caught up in Bucky's story. Steve just rolls his eyes and flips the bacon carefully. "So he charges in, half their size and his hair was too long at that point, I remember, I was thinking I had to… I have to…"

And just like that, he slips out of storyteller mode and back into his own head, lost and confused without an anchor. Steve ignores the churn of his stomach and finishes the bacon, sliding it off the pan and onto the paper-covered serving plate. He can see Clint looking at Bucky with an unreadable look, but at a second glance, the expression is easy to understand. It's just sadness, after all.

"He's getting better," Steve reminds him softly. He places the plate in front of Bucky and gets an uncertain smile in return.

Natasha arrives unceremoniously early in the morning one week after Steve pulled Bucky off the street. Steve doesn't even know she's there until Bucky trails off to fetch a book while Steve fixes them a bowl of apple slices. They've gotten into the habit of going up to the roof if they both wake up early enough, Steve with his sketchbook and Bucky with whatever book Bruce (with whom he'd formed a mutually quiet companionship) had recommended, and a bowl of apple slices or Clint's specialty trail mix (that he's sworn to only teach Steve when he's "ready to handle it") between them. It's a window of time that seemingly belongs only to them, and it's usually so peaceful that Steve sometimes has to stop and close his eyes.

Plus, he's really learning to appreciate those small instants where their fingers brush while reaching into the bowl.

He's humming something jazzy and doing unconscious little dance moves as he slices the apples when Natasha slinks out of the corner of his eye and leans against the counter.

"Good morning," she says, smirking. Steve supresses a blush and stops dancing. "How have you been?"

"Good," he tells her honestly. She looks – healthy, is the first thing he thinks. In an oversized light purple hoodie and comfortable-looking jeans, she seems more relaxed than he'd seen her in months. "Found your new cover yet?"

"Would I tell you if I had?" she says, eyes sparkling. Steve grins, and that's when Bucky walks into the kitchen, calling out, "Come on Steve, get a move on already-"

He'd wondered what would happen when Bucky met Natasha again. There was every possibility he would be inundated with memories of KGB missions, of the Red Room, of brutal things they had done together.

What happens is this: Bucky drops the book he was holding, eyes going wide. Natasha stands her ground and pointedly doesn't shift to a fighting stance, but rather, smiles warmly. A few breathless seconds pass before Bucky hesitantly steps close, and says, "Natalya?"

Natasha says something in Russian that is most likely a shockingly rude phrase. Bucky grins and rushes to embrace her.

Much better than he'd expected, Steve thinks, ruthlessly squashing the unexpected spike of jealousy he feels at Bucky's easy and instant acceptance.

After Steve had dumped Bucky in his bed that first night, he'd meant to find Bucky his own room. But then the nightmares started and he couldn't leave Bucky alone, and the next night Bucky automatically went to Steve's room to sleep and didn't say a word when Steve climbed in the bed next to him, so he'd never really gotten around to it. It wasn't all that different to when they were sharing a bed in their flat back in Brooklyn, too skint to afford another bed, and why would they need one anyway? Sharing meant they didn't need to turn the heat up so high in winter, giving them a few extra cents to spend on medicine for Steve's perpetual cough.

They hadn't exactly gotten back to the days of Bucky spooning up behind Steve with a hand over his chest, ready to soothe any breathing problems in a heartbeat, covering him up almost entirely – these days Bucky sleeps on his back, so that the metal of his arm doesn't bother him, Steve guesses. He no longer twitches and sighs, but is instead terrifyingly still. Steve finds he misses those whuffling breaths and restless leg jerks.

So they're not exactly cuddlebugs anymore, but for the last one or two nights, Steve's been waking up with Bucky having inched closer to him in the night. Like everything else Bucky does these days, Steve takes it as a sign of something he can think about later, and moves on.

So he watches Natasha draw back from the embrace and start gently asking questions, focusing instead on how sure of his words Bucky is now, after only a week of walking free.

"Say, do you want to move this conversation onto the roof?" Steve asks suddenly. The two look at him and he holds up the bowl of fruit. "We can have breakfast up there."

Natasha's smile is breathtaking in its sincerity, and the look Bucky gives him makes the sacrifice of their silent time together worth it a thousand times over.

"Of course we have to have a movie night. Isn't that a rule?" Tony says over a tray-bake dinner that Steve had only needed minimal help from Clint to make.

"Whose rule would that be, then?" Bucky drawls. "This some fancy future thing?" he continues, winking at Steve, who muffles his laughter with a mouthful of chicken and tomato.

"Don't even pretend like you're as behind the times as the good captain there, Barnes," Clint says, laughing openly. "Literally no one is fooled."

Bucky gives them all a charming smirk and a shrug, falling silent again. "But really, where did this rule come from?" Natasha says through a mouthful of bacon. Bruce wrinkles his nose and pointedly spears some capsicum on his vegetarian plate, then has to duck out of the way of Tony's flailing left hand.

"I don't know, it just is!" Tony insists. "Listen, Pepper's flying in tomorrow, whole night free, I say we put a movie on and veg out for once."

"You have the whole night free with Pepper and you're choosing to spend it with the rest of the team?" Bruce says sceptically. Tony grins and murmurs something in Bruce's ear that makes him snort like a dam bursting while his cheeks turns bright red. Bucky and Clint share an alarmed look as Bruce hangs his head and Tony hoots with laughter. Natasha has a fascinated look on her face, and Steve adds the moment to his rapidly growing list of "Things I Shouldn't Ask and/or Think About".

"So, that's a yes from you people?" Tony says after he finally stops laughing. "Movie night-" He points to Bucky, "-meet the in-laws, yeah?"

"Oh!" Everyone looks at Clint, who had jumped guiltily. "Knew I forgot something," he mutters, pulling out his phone and rapidly tapping away at the keyboard.

"If you are texting your in-laws right now, Barton," Tony threatens, then frowns. "You never told us about in-laws. You better not have in-laws."

"I don't have in-laws," Clint repeats obediently, biting a lip in concentration. Natasha snorts and says something in Russian that makes Bucky choke on his food.

"Movie night tomorrow, 6pm start?" Steve says, pounding Bucky on the back with restrained force. "We'll be there. You'll like Pepper," he says in an aside to Bucky.

"Will I, now?" Bucky replies, sly glint in one eye.

"She's dating Tony, of course, but maybe she'll bring a friend," Steve says without thinking. Bucky's blank look makes the food in his stomach turn sour, mood dropping, until Bucky's expression abruptly clears, and he throws back his head and _roars _with laughter.

"I don't remember the joke being that funny seventy years ago," Steve says.

"This family is so dysfunctional," Tony moans. Bruce pats him sympathetically on the head.

So 23 hours later Steve's baking under Clint's supervision, squinting through the oven door to check if the chickpeas are done yet, dressed in comfortable sweatpants and the grey, tiny hoodie that he maybe-sort-of stole from Natasha. Clint is sitting on the counter next to the stove in yoga pants that Steve would bet his shield had also been stolen from Natasha, with the Army Rangers t-shirt he'd been wearing on that first day over top. Steve opens his mouth to ask when Clint had been in the Rangers and is interrupted by the beep of the timer.

Steve pulls the tray out and breathes in the smell of spices and seasoning. "They look pretty done," he says.

"Try one, that's how you know," Clint replies. Steve picks up a chickpea and pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"Crunchy," he decides. "Definitely done. These are amazing, Clint."

"You were the one who made them, Cap," Clint replies. He slides off the counter and stretches. Something deep in his back cracks sickeningly, and Steve winces.

"It was your recipe. So I just put them in a bowl?"

"I only ever box them up to take away," Clint says with a shrug. "Bowl's fine. Nothing too fancy tonight, as the rule goes."

The rule (the other rule, Bucky had pointed out, seeing as The Rule was apparently that they had to have a movie night) had been issued via sticky note stuck to on button for the coffee machine, which had read: "Wear your rattiest comfy clothes, come with movie suggestions, and make some snacks Barton or I'll find your non-existent in-laws and tell them what a terrible house guest you are."

So here they are, making smoky roast chickpeas. There are toffees cooling on the table after Natasha had demanded some, because "you're the only one who makes it how I like it, Clint," she'd said with an innocent fluttering of lashes. There's kale chips for Bruce and Pepper and finally, an industrial sized bowl of caramel popcorn, "For reasons," Clint had insisted.

"Right on time, too," he says, looking at the clock. "Five minutes until go time, wanna go snag some seats?"

"Sure, let me get these," Steve agrees, hefting the chickpea and popcorn bowls into his arms. Clint grabs the toffees and kale chips and they wander into the living room area. The lights are already dimmed, and the only one there is Bruce.

"Wow, you guys," he says, putting down his knitting needles and squinting at the haul being placed on the low coffee table. "I think Tony was joking about the snacks?"

"I needed to put my young padawan to work anyway," Clint jokes, then passes Bruce the shallow bowl of kale chips. "Those are yours and Pepper's. Don't let Natasha get into them, she'll eat them all without remorse, and she already has the toffees to herself."

"I'll try my best," Bruce replies in amusement. As if on cue, Natasha stalks out of the shadows in enormously oversized sweatpants that are somehow not falling around her ankles, and a loose sweater that hangs off one shoulder and looks as soft as kitten's fur. She stops when she sees what Clint and Steve are wearing, and narrows her eyes.

"Those are my yoga pants," she says. "And that is definitely my hoodie."

"We made you toffee?" Clint says hopefully, holding out the plate of toffees like an offering of appeasement to an angry god. Natasha inspects them, then nods.

"You're forgiven," she says graciously, settling on the same couch as Steve, but leaving a gap between them, as Clint flops into the overstuffed armchair beside them. Tony and Pepper stride in, looking less like billionaires and more like the rest of their technically unemployed friends in their ragged comfy clothes, and take the two-seater Bruce is sitting on. Bruce protests and starts to get up, only for Tony to grab him around the waist and force him back onto the couch, threatening to sit on him if he doesn't behave. Clint and Natasha are cackling, Bruce is blushing but obviously pleased, and Steve can't help wondering where-

The couch dips beside him. "Almost didn't make it," Bucky says, letting one arm fall along the back of the couch, behind Steve, and his other arm rest gently on Natasha's leg. It's covered in a bright pink glove, and Natasha grins. He takes the arm around Steve away quickly, and he feels a flash of hurt before he see Bucky lean over Natasha to offer that arm to Pepper, shaking her hand firmly. "You must be the famous Pepper Potts," he says, charm oozing from his voice. "Bucky Barnes, ma'am."

"Just Pepper is fine, thank you, Bucky," she says. Amusement seeps into her tone. "It's good to finally meet you."

"You too, Pepper," Bucky returns, then settles back against the couch, nonchalantly putting his arm around Steve's shoulder. It makes Steve smile, warm and secretive, a smile that grows when he realises what Bucky's wearing.

"Is that my shirt?" he murmurs. Bucky leans in to answer, shuffling a little closer, so their thighs are pressed together. The long-sleeved blue shirt shifts a little as he moves, meant for shoulders broader than even Bucky's.

"They said to wear what's most comfortable," he replies softly, and that's when Steve knows, surrounded by his friends and under Bucky's arm with a movie starting up on the big screen like it's 1934 all over again but _better_, that's when he knows that he's passed the damn metaphorical bridge and left in the dust.

Smooth sailing from here, he vows, and settles against Bucky's side to watch the technicolour onscreen burst into life.

_I'm turning this fic into a series over on my Ao3 page (which you can find via my profile), but this is the last I'll post of it here. Thanks for reading :)_


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